


Reise Reise

by GnaCat



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: But they never meet for obvious reasons., Character death towards the very end of the fic., I like surprises and plot twists so you won't find a lot of trigger warnings here., Multi, Please be aware that you read at your own risk., Two Fords for a while., please set your expectations low., slow build/slow burn, this isn't well written
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-03-06 15:25:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13414137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GnaCat/pseuds/GnaCat
Summary: This Summary is brought to you by mistycodec."Stanford Pines promised himself he'd change nothing upon his arrival in a mirror dimension of the Glass Shard Beach from his childhood. After all, he doesn't belong and isn't meant to be here. However, when he sees a young Stanley collapse helpless into the sand coughing up wet clots of blood, an image so starkly heart-wrenching and wrong, he breaks that promise in an instant."





	1. Young Ones - Cliff Richard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Stancest Server](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+Stancest+Server).



> When Stanford Pines lands in this dimension he quickly comes to realize that he is not only Glass Shard Beach New Jersey but that he is in the 60s. After a bit of nostalgic exploring, he can't resist the urge to visit the beach and unsurprisingly ends up watching a naive and innocent pair of twin brothers mess around on a broken boat from a safe distance. He's determined to change nothing in this dimension and leave as soon as he finds an opportunity, after all, he doesn't belong here and he has an interdimensional demon to slay.  
> The fun on the boat suddenly ends when Stan collapses in the sand and starts to spit blood. The scared little Ford runs off after a moment, probably on his way to get help, but Stanford can't help himself. It feels wrong to just stand still and watch the kid suffer even though he knows whatever happens here is right for this dimension and has nothing to with him. He chalks it up to his insatiable curiosity when he kneels down beside the boy.

“And he socked me right in the chin! I almost bit my tongue. Yeah... I'm kind of glad you weren't there to see it. It was... pretty pathetic actually.” Ford thoughtfully scratches the back of his head before ruffling his own hair, forcing a smile. He can't quite bring himself to look at his brother as he reports back. Next to him Stan frowns and slaps a hand flat on his brother's back causing Ford to jump slightly.

“Don't talk like that, I'm sure you held your own!” he balls his fists loosely and gives the air a quick one-two punch as the Stan o' War slowly comes into view. 

Ford smiles, genuine this time but worried. Not for himself but for his twin. He knows something is wrong. Stan is obviously sick. Sick enough that even Dad agreed it's better if Stan doesn't go boxing anymore, sick enough that Ma made it a rule that Stan is not to leave the house without an adult. Something they are doing right now. It didn't use to feel like it but now it seems like quite the walk to the Stan o' War. Stan had insisted that he's feeling great today, had seemed energetic enough when they left. He's not looking so good anymore. Trying to hide a limp, face rather reddish and damp looking, and he's breathing a little too audibly every now and then. Ford was so excited when he decided to go along with Stan's plan but now he's is not so sure this is worth the trouble they'll get into for sneaking out anymore.

“Just wait and see, in a year or two boxing made us tough enough to pay Crampelter back! It's all gonna work out.” Stan huffs, confident as if he had no cares in the world while Ford is flooded with memories of the last time Ma drove Stan to the hospital. This time they'd keep Stan there he was so certain that Ma would come home alone. She didn't. Ford swallows a lump forming in his throat when he's reminded of how much he wishes they did.

“You have to get well fast, or I'll get too much of a headstart.” Ford teases halfheartedly and gets a weak shove in the shoulder for his trouble.

“You wish!” Stan laughs, loud and hearty and Ford can't help but join in on it because it's infectious. There is something about the way Stan laughs that's warm and natural and never fails to draw him in.  
For a moment they just push each other as they walk and Ford forgets his bruised chin and aching muscles. He forgets the worried looks Ma shoots Stan every now and then. He forgets that nowadays Stan hardly ever gets hit for anything. He forgets that maybe trying to make each other stumble isn't a good idea when your brother is already limping and feeling ill. He just laughs along as they keep shoving each other.

It doesn't last long, though. Stan's breathing is getting a little heavier and his shoves keep getting softer until his hand just touches Ford's shoulder and doesn't let go anymore, leaning slightly against him as they walk. By now he knows that Stan won't tell him when he needs a break so Ford made sure they walked slowly from the start yet Stan kind of looks like he jogged here anyway. 

He doesn't look good.

“Stan?” he's not sure yet how he wants to put it in words, how to say it without offending his brother.

“Hm?” Stan doesn't turn to look at him. Eyes on their beautiful dream laying in the sand like a beached whale.

“Maybe we should go back now.”

“No way! We're almost there!”

“Stan, it's a pretty long walk here and-”

“She's gotta be ready by the time we graduate,” Stan says firmly. 

“I know, but that's still a long way off and you're not feeling well.” he tries carefully and regrets it immediately when Stan stops putting weight on his shoulder and lets go of him, tries to walk a little faster as if he had to prove something.

“I feel fine. We're just getting rid of the broken stuff anyway, I can do this much.” he flashes Ford his usual grin, showing off his tooth gap and Ford can't tell anymore whether or not his twin is being honest. Maybe he feels better than he looks. He desperately wants Stan to feel better than he looks. Ford still studies when he's sick even when Ma tries to take his books and pens away and tells him he needs to rest. But what if...

“Stan, if you can't go to boxing lessons... Restoring the Stan o' War is going to be hard work.”

“Ford, we are _men_.” Stan groans as if that is the answer to the problem, sounding far too much like dad. “Besides, it's not work if it's fun! You worry too much.”

“... Maybe.” Ford admits. “It just feels like you've been sick for so long now... and you're still not getting better. I think, maybe if you really rest for a while that might help you get better faster. We should leave the Stan o' War be for now and stay home." Ford licks his lips nervously and tries to swallow the small lump in his throat. "We can have fun at home, too.” he shrugs, hands digging deep into his pockets and he really drags his feet for a moment before he stops. He holds his head low and stares at his own feet. At the blue shoes he only picked because he knew Stan wanted the red ones, too.  
"We could build a Stan o' War in a bottle. That could be fun." They both like red. It's their favorite color. But Ma always refused to buy them matching things. And Ford knows that when they both want the same thing it's usually him who gets preferential treatment because of his grades. So, a few years back, he told Ma his favorite color was blue now. He thought Stan would be happy if there was no competition for red things anymore and laugh and hug him and tell him he's the best brother a guy could have. Instead, the face Stan made back then was all weird and all he said was “oh, okay”. It was frustrating. It is still frustrating. Blue is stupid. And so is red. Colors are stupid. He chews on his lip.

The footsteps in front of him stop and Ford balls his hands into fists at his pockets, still staring down. Stupid blue shoes. Stupid Stanley. Stupid him for hoping that if he mopes a little Stan will rush to his side like usual. It's unfair to think it and he knows it but he wants his brother back. He doesn't like Stan so frail. Of course, he won't tell Stan that, he's smart enough to know that Stan would be offended. Stan is still Stan, just less fun. And it's so hard to wait for Stan to return to normal. Ford misses the roughhousing, the running around, the loud yelling and singing, the dancing, the dares and competitions over every little mundane thing. He kind of misses having someone who stands up for him and fights for him, too.

“I hate that you're sick.” he says and detests that it sounds so whiny and fractious. But it's true. Nothing is exciting with Stan anymore. Lately, all he feels when he's around Stan is pity and worry and it's... tiring. Stan makes him tired.

There are a few beats of silence before Stan answers, tone as light and neutral as clean socks. “I'm not sick, though.” Stan clears his throat awkwardly, “Ma would've told me if I was.” there is a weird little waver in his voice that makes Ford look up. Something is odd about the expression his brother wears but he can't say what it is. Stan is not smiling anymore but he doesn't look unhappy. “If I was sick Ma would make more of a fuss and I couldn't go to school either, right Poindexter?”

Ford wants to tell him that he's not so sure about that anymore but bites his tongue and nods instead. Nothing will come from arguing and he understands the logic behind his twins reasoning. Being sick always meant that they didn't have to go to school and would be subjected to some good mollycoddling from Ma. Stan can't do PE but he can still go to class, even though Ford starts to wish he wouldn't. And Ma... It's hard to tell, Stan gets a lot of unearned preferential treatment but not so much it could be called cossetting. The information he's getting just isn't consistent with the things he sees and experiences next to Stan. How could he not be worried?


	2. Good Timin' - Jimmy Jones

It's more fun than Ford expected it to be. They sit in the torn up belly of their boat and talk about plans for a while, Ford estimates material costs and enthuses about books about boats he borrowed from the library while Stan keeps insisting they mount big canons and harpoons on the Stan o' War. Their talk briefly derails toward piracy and treasure hunting when Ford tries to convince Stan that maybe they could earn a little something in the pawnshop, "Because piracy is still more realistic than the old man tossing us a spare coin." Stan says and Ford sighs and nods grimly. He doesn't have the confidence to tell Stan that he already swindled their father out of some money for 'extra school supplies'. Bit by bit and very slowly he managed to save up 8$ so far but he's not so sure it's safe to tell Stan about that. So he lets his brother talk about great plans to rob a bank, about Bonnie and Clyde and Billy the Kid, about pickpocketing and petty theft and other related things that make Ford giddy with how dangerous and silly they all are. He grins none the less, ready to do his part should Stan give him a signal.

The signal doesn't come, though. Ford should have expected it but he is a little disappointed anyway. It's hard to admit it to himself but now that it's in the past he misses the hectic days of spontaneous tomfoolery that would get them both smacked black and blue if they got caught.

Later when they get tired of talking they climb up on deck and Stan needs a little too much help for Ford's taste but he is kind enough to say nothing. For a while, they just sit in the sun, unpack the weird assortment of tools they collected so far from the bag they hide in the little cabin and inspect them as if they had a clue what they were doing. In this short moment they are master carpenters, talking about the quality of nails and how hard the wood should be and how unfortunate it is that most of the things they got their hands on are at best a little bend and at worst hardly usable.

It's fun for exactly as long as it takes for Stan to spot a group of girls walking on the boardwalk and jump to his feet, waving his hands as he shouts nonsense, laughs, tries to catch their attention. The girls look like they are at least two grades above them in school and are not impressed by Stan's bragging about their boat and the way he advertises the both of them. It makes Ford's cheeks flush slightly with embarrassment. After an especially crude comment, a chunky brunette yells back and calls Stan a tiny sweaty monkey which makes Ford laugh out loud because that is pretty accurate. Annoyed and slightly humiliated Stan nudges him in the back with his shoe before he sits back down.

Stan groans something about how the babes they will pick up ones they go to sea will be all so much hotter and nicer as Ford chuckles. He ignores the way Stan gasps for air after all that jumping around and somewhat hopeful he imagines these babes instead, these incredible dreamy babes that Stan keeps insisting exist for them before he tells Stan to get the hammer.

Stan loosens exactly two jaggedly broken and splintering boards before he sits down and clutches at his chest, trying to appear calm as he wheezes but Ford knows that he's scared. Or maybe it's just Ford who is scared, he can't tell. Stan tells him it's nothing and to just keep doing what he's doing, so that's what Ford does because it's is better than just helplessly sitting there, tool in hand, and stare at Stan who obviously doesn't want to be seen like this. 

It feels like it was yesterday, the memory of the day they pulled the boat out of that cave fresh on his mind. It was hard and exhausting but they did it together and they shouted with a glee that bordered on hysteria. "Kings of New Jersey!" Ford pushed a few splinters deep into his palms as they moved the Stan o' War over the hot, white sand and Stan got quite the rope burn in his palms pulling it but neither of them would have had it any other way. Back then nothing could stop Stan and he hardly ever tired. Sometimes Ford truly struggled to keep up with him.

And now he's like this. 

Ford wishes he could say that he just got stronger than his brother but it's nothing like that, Stan is just getting weaker and refuses to acknowledge it. He doesn't want Ma to know, he sure as hell doesn't want dad to know, he probably doesn't want anyone to know. If he could he'd probably hide it from Ford too.

Slowly Ford digs the bent old screwdriver into the wood, tries to get the tip under the flat round head of a nail and thinks to himself that there must be an easier way to do this. Behind him, Stan starts to breathe easier. The boat is supposed to be a fun thing, a together thing. Right now it is just a chore to distract him from Stan.

For a while he just works in silence, hopes he might hear Stan getting back up and doing whatever it is he does behind him, get back to work, but apart from the noise Ford makes with the screwdriver and when he pulls some wood plank free there is nothing. It's like he's alone and in a way that is a relief. The moment he realizes what he's thinking he feels bad for it because it's not Stan's fault that he's not well but at the same time that doesn't change the fact that he kind of wishes that Stan wasn't here.

It takes a lot of willpower to finally turn around and check on Stan and discover he is indeed still here because where else would he be? Stan grins at him the moment they make eye contact and crawls over the half deck they have until he's kneeling next to Ford who internally notes that Stan's shirt is sticking to him more than it should, he can smell him.

“Want me to pull that free?” he points at the board Ford has been working on. If he's honest Ford knows that with their limited resources half the things they're doing here are doomed to fail, but that never bothered him much. The goal was never to really fix this thing. It's a game. Something to test their capability. If he's honest Ford is more excited to see how far he can go with just his limited resources and his mind for tools than for the finished boat.

“It's not loose enough yet,” Ford states with a sigh and goes back to work on one of the nails. He just needs to lever them out a bit. Just enough to get a hammer underneath to remove them. Or at least that is the plan. For now.

“I bet I can do it.” Stan straightens up a little next to him, trying and failing to crack his knuckles.

Ford rolls his eyes and suppresses a giggle but doesn't look up at his brother. “No, you can't.”

“Whatcha gonna bet, Sixer?” Stan beams at him and reaches for the broken edge of the floorboard.

“Stan, don't!” Ford says with a little too much cheer in his voice for Stan to feel discouraged and actually even sits back a little to make room for Stan who's already getting into pulling and surprisingly loosens the board a fair bit before he falls back on his ass with a loud “OOF!” wincing hard for a second.

He wrinkles his nose and glares at the floorboard as if it personally offended him before he looks down at his now free hands. Ford can see his forehead glisten, wonders if maybe he's got another fever.

“Hehe, splinters,” Stan smirks and lifts a hand up to Ford's face to show off the evidence of his hard work and wasted effort. 

Ford laughs and shakes his head at his twin. “What did I say? Now you got splinters for no reason.”

“Ma said splinters are good luck.” Stan shrugs in response and starts to pick at his palms. 

Ford clicks his tongue, still smiling. “No, she didn't.” He scoots back over and lowers his head, tries his luck on another nail.

“Yeah, well, she could have said it. Sounds like something she would say.” he lifts a hand to his face and goes at a splinter with his teeth, spitting it out shortly after and immediately picking at the next splinter.

“I guess.“ Ford mulls over that for a moment. It's true, Ma talks a lot about bad luck and good luck and things like that. But Ma is a pathological liar and professional swindler. “I don't think luck exists,” he replies a little more somberly. He lifts his eyes ever so slightly to catch Stan's reaction. He looks confused.

“... I thought you are all into this kinda stuff.” Stan says and tongues at the splinters in his hands again.

“That's different! Aliens and Vampires and the Jersey Devil are more-” he bites his lip, looking for the right word. “They are tangible! If you find them you can prove they exist. Luck is just so- …” He lifts his hands to motion, to find a gesture that describes the intangible. “So super random, you know? When you write a good test that has nothing to do with whether or not your pen is lucky but with how much you study.” Stan nods along, eyes following the movements of Ford's hands and the screwdriver he's waving around as he gesticulates helplessly. “And bad luck is an excuse for people who don't think they have to pay attention or work hard. Good luck...” Ford frowns. “Good luck is either the result of hard work or just an accident. It has nothing to do with charms and mojos and stupid things like that. People who aren't smart enough to know why something good happens always attribute it to luck.”

Stan stays silent for a moment before he starts to pick at his hand again. “You just don't believe in luck cause you don't need it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Stan sighs deeply. “Nothing.” He looks up at the sky and Ford follows his example, curious. There is nothing to see but Stan keeps his gaze up there. No plane, barely any clouds and none of them in funny shapes. Not even a seagull. He looks back at Stan who is still looking up.

“What?”

“Aliens...” Stan whispers and Ford's head shoots back up, alarmed yet curious, only for Stan to break out laughing. He should have seen this coming, really. Stan does that a lot, getting all quiet and serious and making Ford wonder only to make fun of him.

“Nerrrrrd!” Stan shouts and starts laughing like that was the funniest thing.

“I didn't think you really saw aliens!” Ford defends himself but Stan just keeps giggling and points up and Ford looks back up. It's a reflex to look wherever Stan is pointing and Stan starts laughing even louder.

A warm blush starts to spread from Ford's cheeks to his big ears. “I didn't fall for it! I just wanted to know what you saw that would make you say that!” he fumes while Stan calms down, big impish grin still splitting his face even though he's panting from just that bit of laughter.

“Don't be mad, Sixer.” 

“I'm not mad.” he pouts and gives Stan a quick once-over. They haven't even been here for an hour but they should probably go home soon. It's still a while before Ma's gonna take her coffee break and check on them but Stan looks really tired.

“Okay. Can I have the screwdriver?” Stan crawls a little closer on all fours to take it out of Ford's hand and Ford quickly leans back and away from him.

“Don't get so close, you're really sweaty.” Ford makes a face while thinking about jokingly pinching his nose as Stan's expression shifts into something more mischievous. 

Ford doesn't have enough time to become suspicious before Stan all but flings himself at his twin. Before he knows it Ford is stuck in a loose hug with Stan rubbing his gross self against Ford. The warm, sticky slick feeling of Stan's cheek dragging over half of Ford's face makes him shudder with disgust, he can feel Stan's icky clothes catch against his own shirt and the idea of Stan's sweat soaking through his own shirt and getting on his skin as well gives him the heebie-jeebies and something whispers in the back of his mind _You're gonna catch it from him._

He gives Stan a hard push, yells “EW! Cut it out-!”

Stan falls backward over the side of the boat where they took the rail off last time. Ford's heart skips a beat. There is a yelp followed by a soft thud followed by a long moment of silence before Stan starts to cough like he's trying to hack up his lungs.

“Don't make such a scene, Stan! It's just sand down there!” he calls out, tries to laugh because that's just silly. There is no chance that Stan could have gotten hurt, he's not gonna get Ford again. And then he hears his brother retch. He almost calls him out on his bad acting when there is a wet noise so much more disgusting than moist skin could ever be and Ford knows it all too well. If only that wasn't such a familiar sound by now. Stan is throwing up.

“STANLEY!” he slips down into the sand over the broken side of the Stan o' War, he can feel the rugged edges against the fabric of his pants and can't bring himself to care if it rips. This can't be happening! He rushes the few steps around to Stan's side who lays on his back, legs up against the side of the boat where he fell and coughs weakly in between gasps, head turned and laying in his own puke. … There is blood in there. Red blood in the puke. They shouldn't have come here.

"I-" What now? "Stan-" What now?! “I'm so sorry I- I didn't mean to- I didn't want-” Ford stammers and he can feel the panic rise ice cold from his suddenly very nervous stomach and freeze him up. Stan's face is all scrunched up and his mouth stands wide open and he just keeps coughing, every breath a short deep gasp followed by more choked coughing! No, no no no this can't be happening, not when they are alone not when they are here, not when it is Ford's fault! Stan looks like he's in pain, like a lot of pain, more so than usual!

Another small retching sound and Stan barely manages to turn onto his side before he throws up, again, and it's not much but something comes out of him that reminds Ford vaguely of oatmeal gruel with strawberry jam. Stan tries to prop himself up on shaking arms as tears start to run over his cheeks. Before long he coughs and spits again, dry heaves a few times as Ford just stands there, shaking in terror himself. It's almost as if he was back behind the school, cornered by Crampelter and posse. Paralyzed by panic and unable to make the first move. Nauseous with fear and aware that no matter what happens he can't get out of this unharmed.

Stan whimpers and when he continues to cough and spit a little more red drips from his lips. It hits Ford like a train that he's the one who caused this. It's not just 'bad luck', it's because he made bad decisions. He helped Stan to sneak out, he walked Stan so far away from home, he pushed Stan- Oh Lord, he's Stan's Crampelter right now. The thought shocks him, hot and painful and outright defrosts him. He's gotta do something! Anything!

But what? “What- what do I do you gotta tell me what to do- I- I'm sorry, Stanley, I don't know what- I'm so, so sorry!” Ford stutters, feet moving in the stand, walking in place because in stark contrast to just seconds ago he can't stand still. Overtaken by a sudden restlessness that keeps him hostage in place, he can't step back but he doesn't dare move closer. Terrified he might cause more harm than good he continues to apologize because that is all he can think of doing on his own. This is the first time anything happened with no one but Ford around and it's all his fault! _His fault!!_

“Ma.” Stan rasps out and starts coughing again and Ford goes wide-eyed with sudden realization. Of course!

“I- I will! I'll be right back as fast as I can, wait here!” he gulps and starts running immediately, unwilling to waste more time than necessary and stumbling in the sand before he reaches the boardwalk. If he runs as fast as he can he'll still need at the very least 6 minutes back. Then he's gotta get Ma off the phone and get her to run back with him. Ma is always wearing heels, though, so she probably can't run! Maybe barefoot! How long till he can get Ma out of the house? How long before they'll get back to Stan?

He can feel his own eyes burning. He shouldn't have let Stan talk him into going there. He didn't mean to push him! It's all his fault! A sob escapes him and he tries to blink the tears away, rubs at his face and trips. Ford lands flat on the pavement but scrambles to get back up, time is of the essence here! There is a hole in his pants over his right knee, it's bleeding a little and there are slight abrasions on his hands where he tried to break his fall, spare his face. If he didn't know it any better he'd curse his 'bad luck'.

He inhales slowly and deeply, tries to calm himself down. Stan needs him. He hisses under his breath, winces and wills the pain away as he gets back up and continues to run.


	3. Mamma Said - The Shirelles

It's a high tone that rings painfully through his head when the flat of her hand connects with the side of Ford's face, makes him crumble ever so slightly and reach for his burning cheek as she yells at him, already rushing toward the door.

He deserved that, he knows he deserved it but it hurts none the less. And not just physically. When she turns around to call him he's already jogging behind her, out of breath and sniveling but determined.

“By the half boat??” she demands to know and fumbles with her keys.

“I can show you-”

“By the boat??” She repeats, louder, shriller and her voice trembles audibly.

“Yes, I-”

“You stay here!” there is an angry panic in her tone he can't even begin to match and before he can think of anything to say in protest or do to convince her to let him come she continues. “Tell your father to meet us at the hospital!” she's on the verge of tears when she slams the door, leaving Ford alone in the hallway.

Dad.

He didn't think about that but he'll have to tell his father what happened, not in detail but- ... For a moment he thinks about making it Stan's fault. Stan is sick, he won't hit Stan. And in the first place sneaking out was Stan's idea. He fists both of his hands into his shirt and clenches his teeth, doesn't feel quite ready to face the old man, still too shaken by what just happened, still too wrapped up in the image of Stan lying in his reddish vomit with sand stuck to his face, the sound of him retching and coughing and...

Ford lifts his head and a sudden realization dawns on him. She said to meet them at the hospital! They'll have to keep him there this time, they'll fix him, they'll have to, isn't that what he wanted? That's gotta be worth a beating from Pa. If he's looking at it like that then isn't he actually kind of the good guy? He took a risk and now he has to sacrifice for Stan to get better. Like the hero in a story. He's not sure which book it was but he's certain he has read something like that before. 'Sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better.'

And yet he feels rooted to the floor.


	4. I'm Sorry - Brenda Lee

Dad doesn't say anything. His brows disappear behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses and wrinkle his forehead as he looks down at his son. There is a tense moment of silence before the imposing man in front of Ford sighs and licks his lips, barely visible under his thick mustache.

He sternly tells Ford to dress properly and be at the front door in 20 minutes before he makes him leave the shop. Obviously, Filbrick Pines wouldn't drop his work to punish him, he can do that in his free time, but the reaction is somewhat underwhelming anyway, releases none of the tension that has built up. However, it redirects his attention to his pants. Right... they ripped over his knees. Or well, ripped on one side, the other one just got roughed up badly. Absentmindedly Ford wonders whether he'll get in trouble for that, too, or whether that will get lost in all the other trouble he's already in.

After he shuts the door behind himself he can hear a chair screeching over the floor and the sound of a heavy weight dropping. He perks his ears, waits, but that's all there is to hear. Ford slowly counts to 10 before he goes upstairs, movements somewhat mechanical as he picks up a pair of pants and disappears into the bathroom to quickly clean his aching knee and palms. The cold water hurts but there is no blood on his hands, the abrasions aren't that bad so why do they hurt so much? How much must Stan hurt right now? Slowly he collapses to the floor, hands wet and just as painful as his knees and his face. The sink is still running and for a few minutes he allows himself to cry as manly and quietly as possible for a boy in his situation.


	5. Love Hurts - The Everly Brothers

Forty minutes later Ford sits next to his father in the hospital lobby. Waiting for Ma, or a doctor, or anyone willing to tell them what is up. Every now and then he steals a glance at the old man who has yet to say anything about the situation and Ford can't tell whether that's good or bad. He just sits there reading the same page of his newspaper for what feels like an eternity. Rigid and imposing as always and in a frightening way that is kind of calming. Here is one thing that hasn't changed at least. He was still pretty upset on his ride here but now it feels like he is starting to get his thoughts back in order. There is no better word for it, right now he feels incredibly calm and rational. He can feel his pulse in his grazed hands, his knees itch where a little blood crusted back over them, his chin still aches where Crampelter got him, the whole right side of his face feels hot and painful where Ma's long slim hand hit him with a force he doesn't know from her, and his eyes burn from crying. He's not sure when he was last this aware of his body and for a moment he has to repress a smile because of how messed up he is yet here they are for Stanley. It's Stan who has it bad, he keeps reminding himself and at the same time he doesn't want to think about that because it disturbs the calmness he worked so hard on.

But at least it's understandable with Stan. Stan goes out looking for trouble when he can, he has a taste for danger but Ford? He's a good guy. Always doing his best, always nice to others (when they deserve it), he's not a bad person. So how is it that he gets roughed up so often? He opens and closes his hands slowly, tries not to wince, aware that his father can see him. It's not fair. Nothing is fair. Illogically Ford wants to blame it all on the extra finger. 

Most people think the extra finger would be the pinky, the last in line but if someone would ask Ford he'd say it's the one that's dead in the middle, the third from either side that is too much. Sometimes he's sure the extra fingers are a sign that marks him as special, as better than others, and then there are times like now where it feels like he was cursed and that maybe all the bad things around him happen just because of these fingers, that things could get better if he just had the guts to get rid of those terrible extra digits. It's easy to blame it on these two fingers because they can't fight back or complain or tell him he's wrong. He can hate them and there is nothing they can do about it. Extra fingers are far more tangible than bad luck. A curse mark, that's something he can believe in. Something he can see and investigate. He can work on that. If he-

“Filbrick?” Ford quickly jumps up and is at his mothers' side before he knows it, more desperate for news than he anticipated but she barely acknowledges him, ruffles his hair absentmindedly. Behind him, his father stays seated, slightly hunched over and hands folding in his lap.

Ford has a thousand questions but just like last time he was here with Ma he keeps them to himself, not sure if he is ready to hear the answers. Not sure if he wants answers.

“So?” Filbrick says, monotone and somewhat gruff and Ford feels an intense need to ask where Stan is and leave them here, knows that his parents usually are careful not talk about this in front of him and Stan but on the other hand this is a chance that might not come again. He feels... torn.

Ma sighs, obviously exhausted and pulls her son into a hug against her midriff, looking down at him with an unreadable expression, her fingers tangle in his hair and pull his head carefully until one side of his face is nestled against her abdomen, her other hand settles over his ear.

Oh.

He can't make out much of what his father says but he is not sure his mother knows how sound works. It's like he can hear her voice through her stomach, it's hard to make out some things because she talks quietly and because of how muffled it is but he is certain he hears things like “nothing changed”, “he's good for now“, “closer eye on him” “out of school for now”, which is good, nothing too alarming. He breathes a sigh of relief. For a moment he lets his mothers voice vibrate into his head and calm his nerves, quiet the frightened mess of thoughts and guilt he's keeping down by sheer force of will. Slowly words like “scared”, “can't do this”, and “waste away” filter through to him and Ford closes his eyes, not sure if he wants to try to listen harder or concentrate on her touch instead. “only a year, Filbirck, at most.” A year for what? NO!

“Ma, how long is Stan going to stay?” he inquires quietly, purposely interrupts the conversation before he hears more things he isn't supposed to know. There are so many things he wants to know, to learn, to research, so many things but not this. Not now.

His mother lifts her hand from his ear, her smile is somewhat somber. “Sorry, baby, I didn't mean to exclude you so long. We can take your brother home right away.”

Ford's eyes grow wide and he carefully pries himself out of her hug, looks at her with wild disbelief. “But- Ma, there was blood, he-”

“It's alright, Stanford. He already felt a lot better when I picked him up. You don't need to worry so much, your brother is strong. But don't think you're off the hook for sneaking out yet.” She pinches his cheek. “You understand why that was a bad thing, yeah?”

Ford nods with her hand still pinching his cheek. When she doesn't let go he clears his throat awkwardly and mumbles a small “Yesh.” that finally prompts her to release him.

Behind them Filbrick clears his throat. “How much is this going to cost us?” Ma frowns over Ford's head before looking around.

“Stanford, baby, would you do me a favor and ask a nurse to find yer brother for you? I feel bad leaving him all by his lonesome when he's not well.” she smiles sweetly and Ford can find no flaw in her expression. He can't tell if that is her actual reason or if she doesn't want to talk about money in front of him but he nods again and runs off. Because what else can he do?


	6. Everybody's Somebody's Fool - Connie Francis

Ford kind of expects Stan to be in a hospital room, in a white bed much too big for him or something, looking terribly ill and being hardly able to move. Instead, his twin is sitting on a rickety looking doctor's couch in a long row of doctor's couches, only separated by thin white curtains that remind Ford of shower curtains and provide only a bare a minimum of privacy.

Stan doesn't see him coming, too busy arguing and laughing with the nurse taking his temperature. He's bare-chested, probably because he was smelling rancid from lying in his own puke earlier. It makes it really easy to see how thin he has gotten and to spot the lumps growing on his belly. Sometimes it's really easy to forget and dismiss what you don't see all the time.

The wrinkly blonde nurse pulls the thermometer out of his mouth and shakes the mercury back down shortly after. “Are you sure you're alright?” she sounds concerned and Ford stops dead in his tracks.

“Fit as a horse! Or maybe a lion. I'm good!” Stan exclaims with a cocky smirk and he lifts his arms to show off what little muscle he got from boxing. The way Stan twists his body to pose makes Ford flinch, a bunch of big purple bruises bloom all over Stan's back and he has a strong hunch he put them there. But, how could...? Stan landed on sand. This can't be- it couldn't come from the push he gave him, right?

“Nothing hurts?” she continues her questioning. Ford can understand where she comes from. Stan may be smiling but he looks just as feverish and sweaty as usual if not worse.

“No, I told you already nothing hurts. The stuff the doc gave me was real good. You got that here too?”

“Probably, too bad you don't remember what it was.”

“Like I said, he didn't tell me. Aren't you the professional? Why do _I_ have to tell you what it was?” 

The nurse rolls her eyes at him before noticing Ford which seems to immediately lighten her mood.

“Why, look at you! You must be Stanford. What handsome young man, the spitting image of your brother!” she coos and Stan turns, beams at him. 

Before Ford can answer what he considers to be an insulting compliment and put the well-meaning nurse off Stan has jumped off the doctor's couch and Ford has an armful of twin hanging from his neck.

“Careful, you shouldn't-” the nurse chides but Stan doesn't seem to care or listen, he laughs, loud and hearty and squeezes Ford surprisingly tight. It dawns on him then that over the last half year he has gotten used to Stan getting weaker, his hugs getting lighter his punches softer his grip losing strength but this- this is tight and secure and Stan's cheek is just as hot and slick as it was earlier but suddenly Ford doesn't mind the feeling against his skin all that much.

Weirdly enough it feels like a heavy weight rolls off his back as his brother's weight settles against him. It's an amazing feeling that makes his throat constrict painfully and his eyes overflow for no reason at all. He isn't in any noteworthy pain at the moment and doesn't even feel sad but for some reason, there are tears anyway. He can't help but hug his brother back with as much fierceness as he receives.

It doesn't take long for Stan to notice Ford's distress and, dumb brother that he is, he pries Ford off and makes fun of him in front of the nurse but Ford is so relieved he doesn't feel one bit mad at Stan. He just pulls himself back against him and holds on like a vice. He doesn't know why but he can't bring himself to let go for the rest of the day.

Not when the nurse makes fun of them and calls them cute, not when Stan complains and tells him he's fine, better than he's been in years which shocks Ford more than it reassures him (how long has Stan felt sick??), not when they climb into the backseat under dad's disapproving glare and not when Ma sits them down for dinner and tries to forcefully pry them apart, not even when Ma yells at him to stop it because Stan bruises so easy these days.

Stan is strong, even when he's sick a few bruises will hardly bother him. At some point, their parents are so angry with him that Stan starts to hug back again and states that it's not Ford but him who won't let go and Ford almost starts crying again. Almost.


	7. Some kind of Wonderful - The Drifters

“Ford?” he whispers.

“Hm.”

“You still awake?”

Didn't he just answer him? How can he still ask that? “Hm.”

"Don't just say 'hm'."

At this point Stan deserves it. "Hm."

Stan grins audibly. "You sound like Pa when you do that."

Ford's brows knit in displeasure but he manages to bite back the grumpy little 'HM' stuck in his throat which serves to make his twin chuckle some more. It's a nice sound. Quiet and secret right next to Ford on the pillow in their pitch black bedroom and it smells like toothpaste. But it's not quite nice enough to make up for that horrid remark. 'Like Pa', hah! Right. He sounds nothing like Pa, he's not gonna get Ford with stupid comments like that. 

Stan wriggles a little in his arms, tries to get more comfortable under the blanket they share. Probably quite the task with Ford attached to him like a koala bear hugging the side of a tree. Letting go is still out of the question. Come tomorrow he'll probably deny it ever even happened but right now it still feels like the only right thing to do.

Ford stubbornly refused to let go of him till the end, he barely let go so they could use the toilet but afterward he was right back at his side, clinging more desperately than before for no good reason. Of course, he knows it's nonsensical. There is no way he wouldn't know that but it's not like he can stop himself just because he knows. Today just wasn't a good day. It was a horrible day. And he really needs Stan right now. He's certain Stan doesn't mind it. Not much.

And fortunately, while being kind of annoyed Ma was rather understanding. She didn't say anything when Ford wouldn't let go so Stan could take a shower. Ford had proposed they could use the tub together, "To save water!" and after a long moment of silence she let out an enervated little growl, threw her hands up and told him "Yeah, why not? And tomorrow you'll eat breakfast from the same plate to save dishes!" in what Ford is sure was supposed to be a mocking tone but came out kind of whiny. Probably because she was tired.

Ford was so certain that at some point one of their parents would pry them apart by force but the resistance was surprisingly weak and made his literal attachment to his brother feel all the more justified. If nobody is stopping him he must be on the right track. Maybe Ma doesn't feel comfortable leaving Stan completely unattended after today's shocker either. He subconsciously gives his brother a little squeeze, reassures himself of his presence.

Stan clears his throat, takes a deep breath. “Did I scare you?” 

Ford doesn't want to answer that. If he's honest he is still not convinced that Stan is feeling any better than at the beach. His body feels too hot he is already starting to sweat through his nightshirt and Ford can see his forehead glisten slightly in the dim light that falls through the window. As usual, Stan barely touched dinner yet for once he didn't look half sad about it. And he was weirdly energetic after they left the hospital, hardly out of breath Ford can give him that, but it's not like they did much anyway so how much can he give on that? 

Scared... No, he doesn't think he is scared but he can't deny he's incredibly worried and today only made it worse. The way their mother acts doesn't really help. 

After dinner she made them sit in the living room while she continued to scam stupid people out of their money over the phone. That outcome was to be expected though. They broke her trust so she didn't have much of a choice. Not that Ford will ever smuggle Stan outside ever again (at least not anytime soon), but he understands her apprehension to leave them alone in their room after they managed to sneak past her with such ease. So they had to sit on the floor for a few hours and be pretty darn quiet as they waited for bedtime to come around. Ford didn't mind it too terribly, too caught up in his guilt and his self-pity but Stan was desperate for something to do. Lord, he was so fidgety it almost got Ford antsy in turn.

Despite Stan's best effort to lift the mood with some leftover string from his pocket and an endless round of cat's cradle, it was boring as all hell. Cat's cradle is just a bad game for someone with six fingers on each hand. The extra fingers don't really get in the way even though that is an argument he likes to bring up. No, Ford just dislikes games that make it necessary for people to stare at his hands, even if it's his brother who stares. Still, Stan made quite the effort to teach him a few string figures. One he called Open The Gate, that one Ford knows (he can't do it, but he knows it) and the other was Jacob's Ladder. "They are simple!" He whispered under his breath with entirely too much enthusiasm and even though Ford wasn't interested at all he tried. After pushing him off the boat, after seeing the results of it all he owes it to his twin.

“Sixer?” Stan tries to catch his brother's attention again, still waiting for an answer and Ford considers feigning sleep for a few seconds.

But he owes it to Stan. “Hm.” he grunts sleepily.

Stan laughs quietly at the repetition of that response, makes Ford wince when he realizes he said it again. A warm hand gives Ford's shoulder a little shove as he rolls onto his back and that position reminds Ford too much of earlier in the afternoon, he can almost see Stan's pained, frightened expression in his mind and it makes him hug just a little tighter despite Stan's groan of protest.

“I'm better now, okay? You don't have to be scared.” Stan gently pets the arm Ford has slung across his chest.

“I'm not scared.” Ford pouts and wants to rub his face against Stan's shoulder, it would be easy with how snug he fit himself against his twin but he knows better than to put more pressure on his somewhat swollen cheek. It's not likely to bruise, Ma rarely hits them and she isn't half as efficient as dad for which Ford is grateful, but he can still make out remnants of the heated sting of it. So instead he settles for carefully nuzzling his nose against Stan's shoulder, enjoys the smell of the soap they use as long as he can because he knows in the morning the stink of sweat and sickness will have taken Stan over again. But that's not now. Right now... he yawns, right now he actually feels pretty good.

Very gradually Ford relaxes and grows slightly boneless as tension leaves his muscles. What a horrible day that was... He can't remember when he last felt this stressed out. Maybe he never felt this stressed out before, that is how stressful this day was. And if that never happens again it would still be too soon. This might be the worst day of his life so far. Worse than the day when he and Stan got caught trying to borrow something from the pawn shop without asking. Worse than that time when he got a rise out of Crampelter and he broke Ford's glasses between his fist and Ford's face. Worse than that time he brought home a C on a test he wasn't prepared for. Worse than that time when Stan had the flu and Ford had to go to school alone and he got cornered by a bunch of girls that nicely asked to see his hands only to pull on his fingers as if trying to tear one off and kept trying to get a hold of them, told him he was gross over and over, pointing fingers and laughing for days until Stan came back to school, loud and angry and full of vengeance and pulled their skirts up and some hair out in retaliation. He got detention for that.

A content sigh leaves Ford and his body grows just a tad heavier, ready to sink into sweet, sweet slumber.

“Hey, Ford?” Stan whispers tentatively and Ford really wants to tell him to shut up and let him sleep. Can't Stan see he is exhausted? He had a really hard day.

“Hm.” he grunts again but Stan doesn't laugh this time.

“I love you the most in the world.”

Ford opens his eyes back up, seeks his twin's in the dark but Stan isn't looking at him, still lying on his back he stares at the bunk above them instead. 

“Good.” Ford frowns closes his eyes back, smirking when Stan stifles a chuckle.

“You gotta say you love me most in the world, too, now!” Stan reprimands him but Ford only shrugs.

“You're not the one I love most in this world.” he retorts in a slightly cocky tone and he can feel Stan turn to face him which is kind of satisfying.

“I'm not?”

“You're not.”

“Okay, who _do_ you love most in the world then?” he sounds so sure that it's gonna be him after all.

Ford clicks his tongue. “The 'hot babe' I'm gonna marry.” he doesn't lift his hands to make the air quotes the phrase deserves but he's sure Stan can feel it against his body.

Stan snorts and some spittle hits Ford's face, makes him glad he had his mouth shut as his face scrunches up with a hint of disgust.

“Right!” Stan laughs and slings an arm over Ford's side as he clears his throat and tries to touch their foreheads together.

“I mean it. I should love my wife more than my brother. Naturally.”

“Naturally.” Stan repeats with a big smile in his voice. “Hot babes are not for marryin', though.”

Slightly befuddled by that answer Ford blinks back at him. “Then what are hot babes for?”

Stan shrugs, “Kissing?”

Kissing... Ford's heart skips a beat. It's a different skip from the one he felt when he watched Stan fall off the side of the boat. It's a weird kind of skip. A mildly exciting kind of skip that makes him acutely aware of how close he is holding his twin, how warm he is and how slow and evenly he breathes beneath Ford's arm. For a moment he thinks that it's because his thoughts brushed over the image of him kissing a hot babe but that's not it. Not at all. Carefully he untangles himself from his brother and scoots up on the mattress. Just enough to lean over Stan, one hand on each side of his twins head as he presses a tender kiss on its top.

“... Ford?” Stan rolls back onto his back to look at him but Ford leans forward again, uselessly presses his face into Stan's hair because he did it spontaneously, head spinning ever so slightly. No, no no no- he didn't think about what to do afterward!

Stan makes a happy little sound under him and just a moment later Ford can feel his twin's arms around his midsection, gently pulling him back down and next to him. In response, Ford pulls Stan closer to him once more until he can rest his chin on Stan's head. It's a mysteriously amazing feeling when Stan snuggles against him, face aligned with his chest, breathing deep and slow with no coughing at all and- Oh, that's right... There is no need to explain himself to Stan, no real need to feel nervous just because he doesn't say he loves him back, no need to be embarrassed for showing affection in his actions rather than with words. Moments like this are rare but an important reminder of what makes his twin so much more important than the rest of the world around them. Stan takes him as he is, he might occasionally use these things to tease him but always in good spirit.

“What was that for?” Stan mumbles against his chest, Ford can feel his mouth move against his nightshirt.

For being alive, Ford thinks. “I don't know,” he whispers.

And then it's quiet again. There is some more shuffling and pushing and pulling as they attempt to get comfortable while trying to stick as close together as possible. Ford struggles to remember how they were laying earlier when he almost fell asleep but he's not so sure anymore. If only Stan didn't say anything then they could have fallen asleep already. 

Usually it's Stan who falls asleep first. Ma says that's because he's blessed with a fairly empty head, not much to bother him in there and lots of room for free thought. "Makes dreaming easy," she says. Sometimes Ford can't help but envy Stan for that. But not tonight. His mind feels sluggishly slow like a rising dough. No racing thoughts, no mysteries and burning questions to keep him awake tonight. Just a warm body next to him, the relative darkness of their room, and the security of Stan's quiet breathing.

_I'm scared. I can't do this much longer. What mother could just sit around and watch her baby waste away like that? We got just a year left, Filbrick, at most. And I know you don't want to hear it but I think maybe we should-_

“Stan?” He should have concentrated on her hand on his ear instead.

“Yeah?” Stan hums, sounding as content as only someone who doesn't know how bad it is can.

“Don't ever die.”

“You too.” he shoots right back but right now that's not important.

“Say you won't die.” Ford presses on and Stan snickers under his breath.

“Okay. I won't die. Like, ever. Let's become spooky vampires. We can live forever by sucking the blood of hot babes.”

Ford can't help but snort. “I thought hot babes are for kissing?”

“I dunno.” Stan shrugs. “I figure suckin' on a neck is kind of like kissing, y'know?”

“Huh, yeah, maybe.” not that either of them would know anything about real kisses.

“When the Stan o' War is fixed we're going t' sail to Tasmania and find us some vampires to make us into vampires. We're gonna be the vampire Pines twins.”

Ford rolls his eyes. "You mean Transylvania. Classic Vampires originate from Transylvania. I think."

"Okay, guess we'll sail to Transylvania." Stan sighs and Ford smiles to himself.

“Then we have to learn Romanian first.”

“Why that?”

“Because Transylvania is in Romania."

“So what?”

Ford lets out a slightly exasperated breath. “We got to live there if we get turned there.”

Stan clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “No, we don't.”

“Vampires can't cross running water. And I'm pretty sure oceans count as running water.” he sighs and comfortably rests a hand on Stan's chest, fingers scratching lightly against the rough fabric.

“Huh... That sucks.”

“Let's try and find vampires over here first before we consider sailing to Europe, okay?"

"Okay."

"Stan?"

"Yeah?"

"What if you die before the Stan o' War is ready and we find some vampires to turn us into vampires?”

“Why would I die before the Stan o' War is ready?”

Ford doesn't answer that. Instead, he lets his hand slide down toward his Stan's stomach and tries not to grimace when his fingers bump against the lump on his abdomen, only separated from it by a thin layer of fabric. Right. That thing is still there.

“Does it hurt?”

“Dying?”

“No, silly, I mean this.” he stubs his fingers carefully against the growth.

“Nah. It's just more belly, Poindexter. Or maybe like a huge wart.” Ford makes a light gagging noise in disgust. “If you pinch it or hit it I'm sure it'll hurt though.”

“Hm.”

“I'm fine, Sixer. Really.”

“... No.” Ford's fingers try to sink into Stan's side where it used to be soft as he tries to pull them closer together again. “No, you're not. I saw it.”

Stan groans at that, sounding almost a tad annoyed. “Fo-ord.” he puts a hand on Ford's shoulder and shakes him a little which almost makes Ford laugh but it's hard to be amused and kind of smitten when he can remember Stan's pained face so clearly, the smell of stomach acid mixed with the salty ocean air...

“I'm sorry I pushed you.” he whispers, small and private and Stan slows to a halt.

It isn't often that Ford means it when he apologizes. He isn't even sure what feeling sorry for something is supposed to feel like. Bad, obviously, but apart from that, it is hard to grasp. It's not hard to figure out what sorry was supposed to look and sound like, especially not with a father like Filbrick, Ford had to learn fast and was careful to fine-tune his apologies to his father's reactions. Actually, he's fairly certain his apologies are taken more seriously than Stan's despite hardly ever meaning them. No, he knows how to apologize that was never the problem. Ford just never truly had anything to honestly feel sorry about. Until now. He thought he was sorry the moment it happened, but he knows now that he felt panic more than anything else.

Yet, right here, right now Ford can feel the guilt like molasses laced with broken glass in his stomach, twisting and turning down his guts as it takes him apart from the inside every time he thinks of that terrifying moment he saw Stan on his back in the sand and the horrible hour that followed it. Bit by tortuously slow bit it works it's way through him. It's not going to keep him awake tonight, but he knows it's there and it will probably stay there for quite some time. He hurt Stan. He really, really hurt him because he wasn't smart enough to see this whole mess coming. Because he didn't want to see it. Still doesn't want to but now it feels like he has no other choice but to look and he resents it.

“You're not going to say anything?” Ford prods because if he's honest he wanted Stan to tell him it's okay but Stan just takes another deep slow breath.

“It hurt pretty bad.”

“I- I didn't mean to- I didn't think-”

“I know, Sixer.” Stan laughs, light and breathy. “It's fine already, jeez, it's just...”

“... just what?”

“I don't want to think about that. It's over.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I mean the doc saved me and now I feel really amazing. The doc was amazing...”

“A dog?”

There is a beat of silence before Stan suddenly jumps up into a sitting position, startles Ford enough to let go of his brother. Shit! Did he hurt him again?! Did he hug too tightly, or-

“Oh man! I totally forgot to tell you! There was a doctor at the beach! You just left when he came running, you barely missed him! He gave me some weird medicine and suddenly I was like _wow_ , like I felt like dying there on the beach but in a few seconds everything was better! I was on my way home to change my shirt and stuff when Ma drove by and dragged me to the hospital.”

Ford's forehead creases in confusion, unable to process the given information and Stan seems to sense that his explanation is lacking.

“He looked a little bit like dad, I think, but instead of a butt chin, he got a big friendly dimple." As if for emphasis Stan rubs a finger over his own chin. "And you'd think a doctor wears white but he had a really long dark and kinda dirty coat on. His glasses are cracked in one lens and even though it's warm he was wearing a scarf and gloves." Stan makes a short, thoughtful pause. "He was looking pretty cool, actually. More like a secret agent than a doctor. Anyway, he put something on a cloth or a handkerchief or something and put it on my mouth like-” Stan pulls his sleeve over his hand and deliberately presses hit over his mouth and nose in a way that gives Ford the creeps. “Like so, and it burned when I breathed in. I thought I was getting poisoned! But the way he held my mouth and nose shut I couldn't really cough anymore and I couldn't push his hands away and just a few seconds later I didn't even need to cough anymore. I could breathe like normal when he took his hands away and my back didn't hurt and when I stood up my legs didn't hurt in the bone not even when I walked and I didn't feel quite as dizzy and...” Stan tapers off and Ford opens his mouth to bombard him with questions when Stan suddenly curses.

“Shit! Oh shit, Ford! Ford, I forgot to say thank you!” sitting up like that the dull light trickling through the window hits Stan just right so that Ford can see the sheepish expression settling on Stan's features, the blush creeping into chis cheeks. Ford finds he doesn't like it. “Man, I bet he thinks I'm a really rude brat.” he lets himself fall back into their pillow right next to Ford who mildly glares at his twin.

“Since when do you care about that?” he scoffs.

“Because he fixed me up, Ford, like really good and he didn't want nothing for it. I didn't say anything smart but he was kind of nice and wanted to know if I'm okay and whether I'm dizzy or if anything still hurts and he was... Nice. He told me he's a doctor from Oregon. They must have crazy good medicine in Oregon! I actually said that to him that and he... He laughed. Not like I said something stupid but like I said something funny and...” Stan lifts a hand to touch Ford's head, cards his fingers carefully through his brother's hair and Ford can't help but relax into the touch when Stan scratches his scalp much like Ma does every now and then. “And he ruffled my hair like so and made me promise to go straight home.” he sighs wistfully and Ford carefully studies Stan's expression, the faraway look in his eyes. “Why didn't I think to say thank you?”

He decides he hates it. “Did he show you any ID?”

“What? No, why would-”

“Then how do you know he was really a doctor from Oregon?”

“Oh come on, Sixer, he helped me when he didn't have to! Why'd he lie about-”

“How do you know he helped you? Maybe you got better on your own, maybe he gave you a slow-acting poison, why did you even let him put something on your face? You know in movies when someone puts a cloth on your face there is always chloroform on it and you always get kidnapped when that happens.”

He can't see Stan's face but even through the dark Ford can feel his massive frown. “Yeah, well, I didn't get kidnapped so he must have been a doctor.”

“That's a flawed argument.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, well- _You're_ flawed yourself so you shouldn't judge.”

Ford's mouth snaps shut immediately and he withdraws his hands, the desire to hug his brother for comfort gone.

“What's wrong with you all of a sudden? How do you go from sorry to angry so fast?” Stan's expression is all pinched up in frustration and Ford regrets his reaction but he can't help this strange feeling in his gut.

Ford lowers his head, traps his fingers between his thighs beneath the blanket. “I'm not... angry. I just... You got hurt because of me, and... some weird stranger in a trench coat on the beach crept up on you while I wasn't there and you couldn't defend yourself because I made it so and...” he snivels, tries to swallow the lump forming in his throat. It's all his fault. He didn't do anything right today even though he is supposed to be the smart twin, he is supposed to look out for Stan now that he's getting constantly weaker but how the hell is he supposed to do that when he himself is so small and weak and scared all the time and when nobody tells him anything?! He's sorry but not really because he couldn't have known but he still should have because he's a damn child genius but he couldn't do _anything_ so he still feels sorry but not and it's all so confusing! But that's not the most upsetting thing. “Stan you have to admit that was so dangerous and- and think what could have happened to you-”

“Sixer, no...” Stan mumbles and carefully pets his cheek, before deciding to just hug him close but Ford barely notices, too caught up in his own toxic thoughts.

“They should keep you in the hospital already!” he rasps out and Stan stays quiet but his fists ball at Ford's back. “Why aren't you getting better?” he sobs and tries to clench his teeth against the burn in his eyes. "None of the doctors are doing their job! You're just getting worse every day and nobody seems to care! Wh- why am I the only one who is taking this seriously? I don't kn- know what to do, Stan!" He doesn't want to cry again, not when there is someone who can hear him yet he wonders if he even could. Yes, his eyes feel hot but also weirdly dry. God, he cried so much... No wonder he's feeling so tired. No wonder he feels like chewed gum. No wonder...

"It's okay," Stan says and takes a deep breath before pulling Ford so tight against him it hurts and Ford can feel that lump between them. "It's all gonna be okay. Cause I'll make it so."

"H-how?" Ford snivels and tries not to hiccup, to calm himself down somehow but he doesn't receive an answer. "How?" he tries again and when silence remains the only reply he concludes that Stan probably doesn't know how. How could he have any plan when even Ford doesn't? He sighs and nuzzles into his twins secure embrace, exhaustion weighing him down as the quiet slowly, sneakily lulls him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Stancest Server, remember when I pitched this one weird fic idea and some of you were like "Damn, I'd read that?" here you go.


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